


I Am A Camera

by JetGirl1832, tomatopudding



Series: Friends Make Life A Lot More Fun [3]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Cameras, Friendship, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetGirl1832/pseuds/JetGirl1832, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatopudding/pseuds/tomatopudding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark gets a camera for his Bar Mitzvah. Now what?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Summer 1982</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am A Camera

 

Mark was setting the table for dinner as his mother pulled the last pan from the oven, "Marky have you written a thank you note your great uncle Hershel?"

  
Mark sighed as he placed the final fork. It had been a few weeks since his Bar Mitzvah--and the incident he swore he would never forgive his so-called best friends for--and it seemed like all he'd been doing was writing thank you notes. He could feel his hand cramping just thinking about writing more.   
  
"Not yet," he replied.   
  
"Oh, Moishe."  
  
Mark rolled his eyes. He knew that his mother was gearing up for a lecture when his mother called him by his Hebrew name.   
  
"I'll do it tonight after dinner," Mark promised, cutting her off before the lecture could start.   
  
"Your Great Uncle isn't getting any younger," his mother said, "maybe you could even take a few pictures to send."  
  
"Yes, mom," replied Mark.   
  
*****  
  
The sound of Cindy doing the dishes floated up from the kitchen to Mark's room where he sat at his desk staring down the tan box that held this camera. He'd always found it difficult to write a sincere thank you note, particularly when t was a gift that he didn't really want. All he had so far was "Dear Uncle Hershel."   
  
With a resigned sigh, Mark opened the box and pulled out the Brownie 127 camera. He vaguely remembered his Uncle pulling it out at some family gathering or another until his arthritis had made it too difficult for him to hold the camera. After hesitating for a moment, Mark pulled the camera out of the box. It was a bit lighter than he would have expected for its size. He turned it over and around in his hands, trying to figure out how it worked. It looked like it would be pretty simple, but he couldn't figure it out. Just as he was about to resign himself to a library trip the next day, a small knock came on his bedroom door and his father stuck his head in.

"What're you doing up here all alone, Mickey?"

"Trying to write a thank you note to Uncle Hershel," Mark explained, holding up the camera.

"Ah, yes, I remember this camera," his father said, "my father got it for his brother for his wedding to Auntie Harriet. You never met her."

"No," Mark confirmed.

Mr. Cohen walked over and took the camera from his hands, twiddling with a few things before he turned it on Mark, "Smile."

Mark complied by reflex and the camera let out a click as the picture was taken. He put out his hands for the camera, but his father wouldn’t give it up.

“Do you know anything about cameras?” Mr. Cohen asked.

Mark resisted rolling his eyes because his father was looking directly at him. He didn’t want lessons in photography, he just wanted to take a few pictures and send his thank you note, so that his mother would get off his back about it. Not to mention, it was the last note he had to write. Once that was done he could put it all behind him, besides what was he going to do with a camera like this anyway?

“No,” replied Mark, shaking his head in emphasis, “I know that you point it at what you want to take a picture of and then press the button.”

Mr. Cohen laughed, “There’s much more to it than that. Now this piece here,” he began, pointing to a section of the camera, “is called--”

This time, Mark did roll his eyes, “Dad,” he whined.

“Do you want to use this camera?” Mr. Cohen asked sternly.

“I suppose,” Mark murmured back.

“Then you’ll have to learn about it first. Uncle Hershel taught me how to use it very soon after he got it and he wouldn’t even let me touch it until I’d committed everything to memory. Now, shall we begin?”

It took several days before Mr. Cohen left the camera in Mark’s hands, but he did so with a smile and a kiss on the forehead. Finally released from his schooling, Mark set to work. He started small, taking a quick snap of Cindy as she put a hand up to block her face, a portrait of his parents as his mother lit the Shabbat candles. The first few pictures he took with little to no care, but he soon found himself engrossed, looking through the viewfinder to frame each shot perfectly. In only a little under a week, he’d filled his film as well as another roll he’d bought with his allowance. It took another several weeks of chores to save up the money to get both rolls developed. He eagerly awaited each paper envelope that he picked up at the drugstore, the first ones were blurry and it was next to impossible to make out the subjects. As the got better he started pinning them up onto his walls (whether his parents cared about the little holes being put into the plaster he did not know). He found himself constantly shifting them around until he found a balance, which got upset once again when he added more photographs to his collection. He didn’t bring up the courage to bring the camera to school for several months and even so it was only on the end-of-the-school-year celebration that he was able to start taking photographs of his fellow classmates.

He had just gotten a great shot of Roger, who noticed and raised an eyebrow, “So are you gonna be the new Van Gogh?”

“Van Gogh wasn’t a photographer,” Mark sighed.

“Whatever,” Roger smiled, “you get my point.”

“I dunno,” Mark said, getting a picture of that laid-back smile Roger had perfected from an early age that made all of the girls swoon, “Where’s Mo Mo?”

“How should I know?” Roger took a seat in the grass and lay back, hands linked behind his head.

It was a warm day and the sun was shining. They were far enough away from the other festivities, namely the game of capture the flag that was going on a bit closer to the building, that only a dull murmur of sound reached them. The smell of grilling hamburgers filled the air. Mark plopped down next to Roger and twisted around to take a picture of the other kids running around. It would come out blurry because of the movement, but Mark didn’t care. He had been planning on trying some movement shots.

“Hey guys!”

“Speak of the devil,” Roger murmured, causing Mark to snicker.

Maureen lowered herself carefully to the ground, balancing a plate with her hamburger and a small cup filled with what looked like juice of some kind.

“Aw, I want a hamburger,” complained Roger.

“Get your own,” Maureen replied smugly.

“Yours would be better,” mused Roger, pulling himself up so that he was resting on his elbows, eyeing her burger.

Maureen narrowed her eyes. All she managed to get out was “Roger Davis, if you try--” before Roger pounced. She did manage to put her plate and cup aside before the wrestling match could really get started. Laughing, Mark snapped several pictures before he ended up putting the camera in his lap and enjoying Maureen’s hamburger himself. Once they had finished Maureen sat up with a triumphant look upon her face which was quickly dashed away once she realized what Mark had done.

“Why you!” Maureen’s jaw dropped.

Mark lifted the camera and took a photograph of her indignant expression and shot to his feet, running back towards the school building as fast as his legs could take him, Maureen close on his heels.

When Mark got the particular roll of film developed, he picked out the ones of his friends from that day. Part of him really wanted to show them and part of him was scared out of his mind to do just that. The only people who’d seen his photographs so far, besides Uncle Hershel of course, was his immediate family. His parents had told him they were fantastic and even Cindy had graced him with a simple, “Not bad.” But his family was one thing, his closest friends were a whole other animal. He knew he could count on Maureen to be honest, possibly even too honest. It was summer break, so they all had plenty of free time and after a couple rounds of phone tag, the three of them planned to meet at a local park, one that had been a favorite of theirs for as long as they had all been friends. Mark had carefully selected some pictures and clutched the envelope in his hand as he went to go meet his friends. His nerves were causing his stomach to tie into knots. Why did showing his friends the pictures make him so nervous?

Roger was already there when Mark arrived, leaned against a big, old tree that sat in the middle of the park. Mark wished he had brought his camera with him as the pose, knees up and head back with his eyes closed, was just so quintessentially Roger. He quietly approached him and Roger did not notice until a twig snapped beneath his feet. Mark stepped back suddenly and Roger opened his eyes and gave him a sideways glance.

“You’re killing the mood Marky-Mark,” Roger smirked.

“Sorry,” Mark replied, he could feel his cheeks getting warm.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Roger asked nodding in the vague direction of the envelope.

“Nothing,” Mark mumbled.

“Oh come on,” Roger scoffed, “you brought that here for something, didn’t you? Is it your report card? Did you get straight A’s again?” he teased.

“Shut up,” Mark said, nudging Roger’s knee with his foot, “It’s not my report card. I just,” he paused and looked around, “I’ll show you when Mo Mo gets here.”

“She’s around somewhere,” Roger told him, “She ran off when she heard the ice cream man’s bell.”

“Of course she did,” sighed Mark. Maureen was one of those people who just could not resist food if the opportunity arose.

“You should be grateful,” Maureen said, appearing as if out of nowhere, three ice pops in her hands, “It’s hot as hell and I got you both something cold.”

Mark placed the envelope carefully aside as the three of them ate, cleaning the juice from their fingers using only their mouths and drying them on their pants.

“I wanted to show you guys something,” Mark said after the comfortable silence has engulfed them. Making sure that his fingers were no longer sticky, Mark slid the pictures out of their envelope, “Be honest, okay?”

He spread the pictures out on the grass. Maureen and Roger, sitting as they were on either side of him, squished in close to see them, the three friends ending up practically with their cheeks pressed together.

“What are we supposed to be looking at?” Maureen asked.

“They’re just some pictures I’ve been taking,” Mark replied with a shrug.

“Is that why you’ve been carrying that camera about like it’s some kinda growth?” Maureen raised an eyebrow and Roger let out a laugh.

Mark sighed, “Can you just tell me what you think about them?”

Maureen looked back at the pictures and picked up a few and started shuffling through them, she began to smile. “I like this one,” she beamed as she handed Mark one of the pictures he had taken of her.

“Of course,” Roger snorted.

“Not just because it’s me,” Maureen protested, entirely unconvincingly. Roger nudged his shoulder in Mark’s, which caused him to nudge Maureen in turn and she grinned, “Okay fine, mostly because it’s me.”

“These are really awesome, Pumpkin Head,” Roger said, “You got anymore?”

Mark rolled his eyes at the terrible nickname--Roger had taken it upon himself to decide on something other than “Marky,” but so far none of his experimental nicknames had stuck; this one probably wouldn’t fare much better--and nodded in answer to the question, “At home.”

“Field trip to the Cohen’s house!” Maureen exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“Oh, I don’t,” Mark stuttered out, collecting up the pictures and envelope.

“You brought it on yourself,” Roger told him, following Maureen at a more sedate pace.

Mark slid the pictures back into the envelope and hurried to catch up.

“Hey you think your mom has snacks?” Roger asked.

“You just ate!” Maureen groaned.

“Are you really surprised?” Mark asked Maureen, then turned his focus to Roger, “Do you know who my mother is? Of course she has snacks.”

“It’s a Jewish mother thing,” concurred Maureen, nodding sagely.

Mark called out their arrival when they walked through the front door, which of course prompted a small flurry of movement from the kitchen as Mrs. Cohen rustled together a small snack. Maureen gave Mark a knowing smirk over her glass of milk as she dunked a cookie into it.

"Thanks Mrs. Cohen," Roger replied between bites of cookie, coupled with the milk mustache atop his upper lip.

Mark rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but grin and shake his head. He was slipping into the comfortable easiness that he always had with his best friends when Roger mentioned the photographs again and he felt his spine stiffen.  
  
"I guess," he said, hands twitchy, "They're upstairs."

“Lay on, Macduff,” Maureen proclaimed grandly.

Mark took them up to his room, taking a deep breath before they entered. He waved a hand at the wall across from his bed with his hand, “Ta dah.”

He couldn’t watch them looking at his work, so he turned to stare out the window. Mrs. Tennerman from across the street was walking her poodle and looked up, giving Mark a small wave, which he returned.

“You took all of these?” Roger asked.

Mark looked over his shoulder and gave a nod, “Well, except for the one of me at the top left. My dad took that when he was teaching me how to work the camera. I think,” he paused, suddenly unsure about revealing something like this, but then he remembered all of the times that Roger and Maureen had talked about their future plans--although to be fair, Maureen changed future plans about every other day, “I think I want to be a photographer.”

“I think you should,” Maureen said, “These are awesome.”

“Really?”

Roger threw his arm around Mark’s shoulders, “Totally.”

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This totally didn't go the way we thought it was going to. We started with an idea and it sort of just grew a mind of its own. The title comes from John Van Druten's play of the same name, which is based off of Christopher Isherwood's novel _Goodbye to Berlin_.


End file.
